


Dreams have nothing on my reality

by Sitamun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Coping Mechanism for Holidays in Customer Service, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Footnotes, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, New Year's Eve, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22144006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sitamun/pseuds/Sitamun
Summary: The angel on the other hand continues to thaw glaciers with his smile, completely unimpressed by the display of demonic power.“How was your nap, dear?”, he asks, and his voice is like liquid velvet, like wind in his wings.“What nap”, Crowley murmurs as an answer, two steps more and he is at his side, slithering his arms around the angel’s middle area, pulling him flush against his chest. As if he is doing it for centuries instead of mere months, his chin rests on his shoulders, the perfect height and the perfect place to burrow his nose into soft curls.He breathes in and smells neither angel nor heaven, only home.- -Or the way to cope with working in customer service every bloody day of the year, including holidays, and writing soft husbands instead.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Dreams have nothing on my reality

**Author's Note:**

> 31st of December, not dressed up for a party, but in my work uniform, having nothing to do _at all_ so what do you do?  
> Yes, exactly! Write soft husbands about the very same thing you were doing for every customer since Christmas: Wishing everyone and their mother to have a Happy New Year, like the angel would, and being pissed more and more with every time, like the demon would.
> 
> So - here we are. A few days late but who cares? We enjoy soft husbands any day of the year.

* * *

„Have a Happy New Year!”

For the umpteenth time.  
Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale opened the bookshop in the first place or why every goddamn human in London thought it a splendid idea to go browsing for books on the last motherfucking day of the year in the shop with the worst online reviews, not only in Soho but in all of London. At least. Worldwide would probably be a close shot, too.

And the demon is not even responsible for even one of them, he thinks with pride.  
Oh, don’t worry, the demon had his fair share of fun with chasing customers from the shop, although each time with the blessing of the angelic owner he relied on the methods of the devil.  
Whoever he helps over the threshold, doesn’t leave a bad review for a boring bookshop but spends his time online to search for a therapist with the best ones. Probably joined by one of their own months later.  
Didn’t happen that often so far, even less before the end of the world failed to happen, simply because he wasn’t here that much during the ominous opening hours of the shop, mostly afterwards to drink himself into a stupor on the finest wine the angel had stored away over centuries and now he usually sleeps through them, waiting for his angel to wake him with a cup of tea after he closed the shop.

His angel never asked explicitly for his help with special customers. Crowley felt his discomfort all the way into the backroom, waves of waves of strained nerves and patience growing thinner, rocking against him and getting stronger each time. Oh, the symphony of his career.

On a normal day, he would be fine with dipping his hands into the metaphorical water of those waves. The angel probably didn't even feel it when his angelic aura turned sullen and bitter, too bright, too painful to look at, his lovely smile too weird and suddenly it made sense on a strange and creepy level why an apparently middle-aged man didn't sell any books.

Creepy as nails on shale, as the smiling neighbour inviting you for lunch for months and confess on Christmas Eve to be a cannibal for years.

Crowley loves these thoughts in those special customers. Humanity comes up with such vivid and colourful ideas for whatever this bookshop owner might be behind the shelves; these days, when psycho thriller and horror movies are an art form of their own, are a treat for a starved demon.

Occasionally, he relies on more radical means when weaving the angel's aura into a spooky reflection of himself doesn't work.

In those moments, he releases his demonic essence, true darkness and ever burning hell fire, lets it creep through cracks and corners, into shadows which weren't there before, into the creaking of the wood floor, promising to fulfil your darkest nightmares.

Crowley takes no joy from this method. Specific, personalized torture is for the dull, boring, rotting rest of hell, not for him.

But drastic times call for drastic measures, especially if Mr Wilde was at stake.

And the look Aziraphale graces him with afterwards, when the customer leaves the shop without a single book in his hand … the warmth and fondness and gratitude and lo-  
Crowley shudders. Disgustingly adorable.  
  
Surprisingly though, none of the customers today is here to buy something. The angel’s book are all safe.  
 _They are simply here_.  
And the demon has to listen for the millionth time how every one of them tries to make some pun for getting as smoothly as possible into the next year.  
His eyes already have a whiplash from rolling to the backside of his head and his hand is basically married to his forehead at this point.  
Aziraphale though keeps smiling and every blessing he’s giving with each new year’s wish turns his insides upside down.[1]  
After several hours of the same words over and over again even an angel should grow tired eventually.  
But no.  
  
“Have a wonderful New Year, my dear.”  
  
Even ‘my dear’. Every word fully and correctly pronounced.  
Crowley practically dry heaves at this point.  
Nope, he can’t deal with this anymore.  
Not one more second.  
It is already 3pm. All good humans have to go home now for their midday nap so they can stay awake until after midnight.

In an inhumanly fluid motion, the demon leaves his couch[2], saunters into the sales area and sees the last customer leaving in that very moment. Aziraphale still beaming like the sun on a spring morning, his hand still raised to wave goodbye.  
The door falls shut and locks itself with one look from snake eyes, the blinds close, too, afraid, the demon would focus his attention on them next.

His growl, a noise from the deepest pits from hell, drills into their very core, gluing them to the glass, while he closes in on the angel, his darkness creeping around him like a black hole, endless and absorbing every bit of light.

The angel on the other hand continues to thaw glaciers with his smile, completely unimpressed by the display of demonic power.

“How was your nap, dear?”, he asks, and his voice is like liquid velvet, like wind in his wings.

“What nap”, Crowley murmurs as an answer, two steps more and he is at his side, slithering his arms around the angel’s middle area, pulling him flush against his chest. As if he is doing it for centuries instead of mere months, his chin rests on his shoulders, the perfect height and the perfect place to burrow his nose into soft curls.

He breathes in and smells neither angel nor heaven, only home.  
  
“Every goddamn ‘Happy New Year’ got on my wick, every blessed pun about getting into the new year was older and triter than … than …”

The demon stops himself, half because he can’t think of a proper comparison, half because the smell in his nose distracts him thoroughly from thinking straight.

“The world almost ended, my love. Every single one of them deserves a blessed new year and every bit of luck on this earth, love and security for the rest of their lives.”

Aziraphale’s hand caress the demon’s hands, his fingers drawing gentle circles across the back of his hands. He turns his face just so he can press his forehead against Crowley’s.  
He hums wordlessly, a breath of angelic essence on the demon’s skin, enough to enclose his darkness completely instead of pushing it back, welcome it inside and stroke it with every fibre of his being. Seconds pass in silence, filled to the brim with contentment, enough to light the whole planet, before it is not enough anymore.

The blissful humming suffocates in a sound of utter desperation, a dying trumpet in its last rebellion for one more magical tone, as Aziraphale turns further and seals their lips in a kiss.

Gentle, hungry, lovingly, greedy – there is no kiss the angel doesn’t pour his whole being into, every emotion he ever felt for his lifelong friend.

Caution, friendship, affection, desperation, burning desire, the pleading for forgiveness. Love.  
A tiny bit of mischief.

“Do you think”, the demon murmurs against his lips, “just because you’re kissing me, I wouldn’t notice that you’re writing runes of blessing onto my skin?”

Crowley grins into the kiss, laughing almost, happy, content. Heaven and hell, he loves this bastard who doesn't even try to pretend to be ashamed.

“Crowley, darling, you are the first who deserves all this and more. Every day, and every day from me. I will spend every moment of eternity to make sure there is not one single moment you forget you are loved and appreciated, how important you are to –“

Crowley interrupts him with a kiss and a sound similar to the dying trumpet Aziraphale tried to imitate before.

“A happy new Year to you to, angel. For the rest of eternity.”  
  


* * *

[1] Figuratively, not literally. Crowley knows there is nothing about this one true angel, the personification of goodness, he’s not loving idolatrously.

[2] His. After 200 and something years his claim of ownership on this couch is very much valid, even more so because the angel didn’t bother to miracle away the imprint of his backside on the couch after so many years.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in German first, afterwards translated into English.  
> Also written to cope with boring days at work and to put a smile on a very special face ♥
> 
> Title is from the Song 'Temple of Thought' by Poets of the Fall.


End file.
